An Ominous Tune
by Se7enSins777
Summary: My Dad once told me: "Try anything once, except for incest and morris dancing". Sentimental soul. Anyway, in the spirit of his advice, why not try my story! It's about Harry trying to beat Voldemort, get Ginny etc. etc. Actually tried to write this some time ago, but failed. Here we go again!


_They leave the beaten tracks behind,_

_footsore for sure from_

_the crossing of the desert._

_Uplifting eyes, they journey on..._

_faces turned toward the dawn._

_..._

Where to begin? With the **Final Battle**? "Across the corroded mountain top the two men faced each other: as one, they reached for their wands; as one, they cast their final endeavours. The two spells met with the force of a thunderclap, raining down fire and-"

Probably not very chronological. How about the final battle with acne? Possibly _even more _grievous than the **Final Battle**, that one; and easier to write at this stage- I can just substitute some different terminology and we're golden... "In the polished mirror the two teenagers faced each other: Harry Potter, and his spotty alter-ego reflection. As one, they reached for the tube of Clearasil; as one, they removed the cap. Spot cream met blackhead with the force of a thunderclap-"

Am I getting a little off track?

Whatever, let's do this thing.

...

The setting sun was splashed lazily across the gardens of Privet Drive. One side of the street was gloomy already, the neat outline of the two-storey sub-urban houses blotting out the dwindling light even so far as the opposite pavement; the gardens of the even-numbered houses were still golden, though everything was attended by a train of lengthening shadow. In the riot of gradually fading colour that was the effervescent flower beds, with the trees statuesque in the breathless air, and the musky honeyed aroma that permeated every aspect of the sun-kissed scene, even the inanimate seemed to be taking part in a motionless summer festival.

The bumble-bees were the only real attendees. They swayed drunkenly from one flower head to the next like exuberant regulars moving through pub after pub, the more indulgent already belly-up and motionless, content and listless in the manicured grass.

One such unfortunate was lying comatose drunk on the wall of Number Twelve, beside a tortoiseshell cat with peculiar spectacle markings who was contemplating it speculatively, as if wondering if she really was that hungry. Not that it's especially unusual for a cat to eat insects, but bumblebees (if you'll pardon the pun) have something of a sting in the tail.

This particular cat was doubly reluctant: she felt, as the deputy headmistress of the foremost school of magic in the entire country, that it might hurt her prestige to be seen on a suburban wall, in broad daylight, consuming invertebrates.

Then again, Minerva McGonagall was _very_ hungry. She had passed on breakfast, and even lunch; but with good reason.

Voldemort had fallen the night before.

The news, once it had filtered out of sleepy Godric's Hollow, travelled across the country like wildfire. By midnight, every witch and wizard in Britain knew: that Harry Potter had- Well, that he had done _something_, and that Voldemort was no more. The sense of mystery in the air was as palpable as the sense of excitement.

In the early hours of the morning, Minerva had received an owl from Sirius Black, informing her that Harry was in Dumbledore's care, and that the headmaster intended to leave the child with his relatives. In the letter Black had asked if she would go to Privet Drive and make sure the muggles were of the sort to treat Harry well.

"I would go myself," he had written on tear-stained parchment, "but there is something that I have to do."

_Poor man_, Minerva had thought. Obviously, as the Potters' best friend, it would fall to him to arrange the funeral; she knew that he, for one, would not be out celebrating tonight.

So she had come, and she had watched.

Suffice it to say that today was not a good day for Harry Potter: first the murder of his parents, the destruction of his home, and now the prospect of a childhood under the roof of the most revolting group of muggles she had yet to encounter.

If there was a competition for the most stereotypically dislikeable family, the name Dursley would be all over the trophy: the brash, work-driven, self-satisfied father; the snide, nosy and neurotic mother, and the spoiled infant with his wide flabby face and piggy eyes, of whom both parents were inexplicably proud. The entire family was like some gross trifecta of misplaced self superiority; Minerva knew that any child gatecrashing on their insular existence would hardly be welcomed with open arms.

All this was bad enough, but as if to compound their villainies, the Dursleys owned _garden gnomes_. There are sins in this world, and then there are **sins**. Garden gnomes comprise the latter.

As a cat, she had watched them from sunrise to sunset, and within a single day had decided that Number Twelve, Privet Drive was about the single worst place for the saviour of the wizarding world to grow up.

Seething inwardly, she sat rigid and watchful upon the low stone wall, and awaited Albus Dumbledore. Meanwhile, the sun sank beneath the houses opposite, sweeping a veil of shadow across everything. The white-faced houses turned to grey, the bees sobered up and went home, and a chill breeze arose, heralding the sinister events of the night to come.

...

Night fell and the darkness gathered. A sea mist, carried inland by the rising wind, came rolling through Little Whinging and submerged Privet Drive into a world of tumbling grey silhouettes, the street lamps now like towering lighthouses above a shifting ocean.

The first Minerva saw of Dumbledore was a dim figure at the far end of the street, striding down the middle of the road, tendrils of fog reluctantly relinquishing the tails of his cloak as it fluttered behind him. He clicked the deluminator as he walked, the street lamps extinguishing themselves one-by-one in his wake; by the time he stood before Minerva, the gleam of the Cat's eyes was only occasionally visible in the brief points of starlight that broke through the swirling mist above.

"Thank you for coming here tonight, Minerva" he said softly.

In the blink of an eye, the woman herself was standing there before him, all anger in the thin set of her mouth.

"I'm not here to support you Albus," She snapped. "Quite the opposite in fact! I'm here to discourage you."

"All the same," he murmured, "I'm grateful that you're here."

A brief burst of moonlight illuminated his face, glinting in the silver of his hair and beard, his eyes shining with unshed tears. For a brief moment, Minerva couldn't help but be shocked at how- how _old_ he looked. Despite herself, she felt her anger ebbing away.

"Was it bad?" she asked tentatively, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

"It's Voldemort," Dumbledore replied heavily. "It's always going to be bad. I haven't seen the house myself yet; it was Hagrid who got Harry out."

He sat down wearily upon the Dursley's garden wall; the bundle of blankets in the crook of his arm stirred sleepily.

"Hagrid was… Well, you know yourself how emotional he can be: the poor man was quite overcome. I refused to let him come along tonight. He wasn't happy with the idea of Harry living with muggles."

"As you should feel too, Albus!" said Minerva, leaping at her opportunity. "These people are quite awful! Why leave him here? There must be a thousand wizarding families who would be more than honoured to raise him. Gods, Albus, _I'd_ take him in if no-one else would."

"I'm sure you would have," Dumbledore smiled faintly, "and no doubt you would have been a wonderful guardian for Harry. But this is the only place he can be kept safe. He needs the protection of blood, Minerva, which only his aunt can give him; Filius and I spent the entire day on the enchantments, but without his relatives, Harry would still be in danger."

"There _must_ be other places, Albus. What about Hogwarts? Or somewhere under a fidelius-"

"It's not enough!"

It was the first time Dumbledore had raised his voice- McGonagall subsided, her eyes, unnerved, searching the silhouette of Dumbledore's face; he stared into the distance, separated from her by secrets she could only guess at. A silence stretched, the mist drifting between them like a soporific curtain.

It frightened Minerva to see the headmaster so subdued. Like the flowers around them, he had wilted against the encroaching dark. She had watched him stand tall against Voldemort for the past ten years... Was this last, the death of Lily and James, the straw that broke the camel's back?

"But surely Albus," she eventually whispered, "_Surely,_ with You-Know-Who dead Harry will be safe?"

Dumbledore sighed, half lost in his reverie, and turned weary eyes upon her.

"Dead?" He grimaced ruefully. "If only that were true. Voldemort lives; bodiless and powerless perhaps, but still he lives. Mark my words Minerva: one day he shall return, and when he does, Harry will be in extraordinary danger."

Shock flitted across McGonagall's face, followed by horror.

"If he is so certain to return, why on earth is the entire country celebrating?! Are you saying that Lily and James died for nothing?"

"No. Nor will you ever hear me say it. They, or perhaps their son, have brought us peace – how resilient it is only time will tell."

"But until he returns then, Albus, couldn't we-"

"No, Minerva!" A glimmer of anger - and perhaps something more - showed in Dumbledore's eyes. "This is the only way to keep him safe! Do you really believe that I have not given this decision my utmost thought? That I did not consider every alternative to these grotesque people? Do you think I do not realize how much I have to fear from the repercussions of this decision?" He subsided into smouldering silence, and McGonagall was unable to meet his piercing blue gaze.

"I'm sorry Albus," she replied meekly. "Of course you're right. I just… My heart goes out to him, that's all."

"As does mine," he said, gently now. "Harry has brought light to a dark world, and we owe him more than he will probably ever realise. The most we can do, for now, is to keep him safe."

She only nodded in reply, her voice lost in emotion as tears began to course their way down her cheeks.

"The price of this victory is so high," whispered Albus. A faraway look clouded his eyes, removing him from the grey street and the crying woman before him. "Lily and James were golden people." They were both still, lost in the swirling mist and the grief of already intangible memories.

After a time, Dumbledore shook himself from his reverie.

"Let's get it done then, shall we?" he asked gently.

Minerva nodded.

"I'll leave it up to you to tell Sirius," she said thickly. "He so desperately wanted Harry to live with him - you know how he loved James."

Dumbledore stared at her.

"You mean you haven't heard?" he asked, shocked.

"Heard what?"

"Heard about Sirius!"

Minerva shook her head again, confusion written across her face.

"What is it, Albus?"

Dumbledore's shoulders slumped, and he looked wearier than ever.

"Oh Minerva, there's so much about all of this that you don't know. I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you." He looked into her already grief stricken face, and sighed. "It can wait until later. Go back to the school, and wait for me in my study. I'll meet you there when I've finished with the enchantments."

"You don't need me here?" she asked with concern.

He shook his head. "Go now, I'll be with you shortly."

She nodded, turned, and apparated away.

Dumbledore sighed, already dreading the conversation to come; he himself could still hardly believe that Sirius Black had been the traitor all along. If _only_ he had realised sooner.

He made his way slowly up the flagstone path of Number Twelve, past the impossibly tidy flower beds and the shallow garden pond. He stopped at the front door and placed Harry, in his bundle of blankets, down on the doorstep. He pushed his letter to the Dursleys into the mailbox, and stepped back.

"So long, Harry," He said softly, looking down wistfully at the diminutive bundle. "This is only the beginning of your story." He turned away from the doorway, and away from Harry Potter.

...

The end?

...

Yes.

For the rest of the story please see Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, starting chapter two. It may be a book you're familiar with.

...

Only joking...

...

A sense of unease had been growing within Dumbledore ever since he arrived in Privet Drive - a formless, shapeless, elusive fear. He stood for a moment before the Dursleys' front door, and stared out across the street. The fog obscured the houses opposite and he could barely glimpse them: they were ghost houses, their windows more dark eyes and gaping mouths in the restless opaque. A shiver travelled up the headmaster's spine. Where was the warm sunshine of hours before? The sun had not got his hat on, was gone to bed; but something different, and very much darker, was coming out to play.

There was a stalker in the night.

Dumbledore wanted light. He _needed_ light. He withdrew the deluminator from within his robes, and clicked it.

Nothing happened.

He clicked it again.

Nothing happened.

The street lamps remained dark.

Since the day he had created it, many years ago, Dumbledore had never once known the deluminator to fail. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise: there was some other magic at work here. With a frown, he stowed his precious invention back inside his robes, determined to examine it later.

He looked up again, and blinked in shock: the fog, the great smoggy cloud, the stifling blanket that for the past two hours had lain thick on every plant and paving in suburbia, was gone. The street was suddenly bathed in moonlight, the surface of the Dursleys' garden pond like a giant silver coin. A thousand stars hung incandescent in a clear black sky, and the shadows lay long once more in an eerily quiet scene.

"**And the lord said: Let there be light."**

Dumbledore was not alone.

The air had suddenly become ice cold; the rising spirals of Dumbledore's own breath obscured his view of the Thing which had spoken- the Thing which was standing at the gateway to number twelve.

It was stood in shadow. Or perhaps It _was_ shadow: the rest of the street gleamed in the moonlight, but this Creature radiated a darkness. It was a silhouette with eyes.

"**But the lord giveth..."**

It was a male voice, perhaps, though unlike any noise ever made by a man. It was a quiescent roar, the muffled thunderclap of a distant storm; it was half sound-wave and half wave of nauseating magical power. It was calm, yet furious, quiet, yet loud, and so deep, deep as the ocean or the farthest reaches of lifeless space. Every instinct within Dumbledore's mind screamed out FLEE! RUN! FEAR THE UNKNOWN!

And this creature was the unknown, a faceless menace.

A silence hung for a moment, dark and ominous as a storm cloud in a heartbeat.

"**...and the lord taketh away."**

The stars were dying. One by one, snuffed out like guttering candles, the distant lights vanished from the sky, drowning like lost mariners in the endless black. There had been thousands, now there were hundreds, and then there were none. Dumbledore had time to draw one panicked breath, his eyes wide in the last gasp of failing moonlight, before the moon too was swept away, and the world was plunged into darkness.

His first instinct was to panic. And so he ran.

He ran with no destination in mind but somewhere, _anywhere_ away from the Thing which stalked him in the frozen shadows: that which could control the very stars themselves.

Blinded by panic and the all-consuming dark he tripped on a rock and fell, hard, into a pond, cracking his head on the rough-hewn edge; blood trickled into is eyes, his mouth, swilling with the muddied freezing waters. He lay still, though his trembling body propagated rippling waves in the water.

Slowly, Dumbledore drew his wand. His hand shook violently, and he could barely grasp it in his weakening fingers. He cast a Lumos spell, and a faint futile light appeared at the wand's tip, the tiny pinprick far smaller than it should have been. He stared hopelessly out into the all-encroaching darkness, his vision extending little more than a foot, and no farther than the stony edges of the pond. He tried to slow his own thumping heart, and listen: there was not a sound in the claustrophobic darkness, not a single breath of wind to penetrate the stifling air. But the creature was coming for him.

Dumbledore heard the sound of footsteps now: Light, barely audible footfalls. They approached up the path.

Slowly, like the measured beat of an executioner's drum.

They came closer.

Ten feet away now.

A chill wind preceded them, flowing as an icy wave over the manicured grass of number twelve, rolling over the old man, tugging at his hair and beard with malicious fingers.  
Five feet away now.

Dumbledore's heart was beating fast, faster, faster than ever it had before, his chest heaving, eyes blurred without their glasses in the feeble light of his wand: light which flickered as the footsteps came closer and closer, until it finally died.

The footsteps stopped.

Albus sat in darkness, sensing the presence that stood at the water's edge. He cast anotherLumos spell.

Nothing happened.

**"Good evening, Professor."**

Dumbledore tried to Dis-apparate – but couldn't. His power was gone, suffocated.

"**Your spells won't work tonight, Dumbledore. Not until I wish it.**"

The old man felt his heart lurch.

"What have you done to my magic?! What are you?!" His feeble voice wavered out into the night.

The voice chuckled in Dumbledore's ear, a low sibilant hiss, a silken sound, a whisper of darkness.

"**I am Legend."**

With sharp cracking sounds a wave of ice swept across the surface of the pond in the wake of the words, freezing the rippling water into jagged ridges. With only his head and shoulders above the surface, Dumbledore, trapped, felt his sense of helplessness increase dramatically.

"A legend without a face?" he croaked, his voice distorted by fear. "Show yourself!"

**"With pleasure, Professor."**

Two points of light appeared in the darkness not ten feet from Dumbledore, casting a metallic light over the frosted garden. They blazed like stars, with an old, arcane power. Dumbledore realised, with a thrill of terror, that they were eyes…

"What do you want?!"  
The creature began to circle Dumbledore, a predator stalking it's prey; the eyes remained fixed on him, a watchful constellation in the night.

"**I seek the truth. I seek a light in this Dark Age. I seek the boy whose life you would ruin, just to keep him safe. I see your lies are as transparent as ever.**"  
Dumbledore sensed a smile in the voice- it was a feral smile, the gleaming canines of a wolf.

"It's not a lie!" He cried out. "He must be protected, it's for his own g-" His words were cut short as a streak of white light hit him in the chest. He was hurled backwards out of the pond through the low garden wall, and tumbled out onto the road amid an avalanche of ice and bricks and dust. The old man lay face down, nose and mouth pressed into the reeking gutter, chest heaving.

"**Do not **_**lie**_** to me, professor.**" The creature's voice filled his ears with a crackling rage.** "Your deceit may fool the ignorant, but it will not distract me!**" As this last word was spoken, a wave of pain flooded Dumbledore, excruciation like nothing he had ever felt in his life. He screamed, a hoarse old man's scream, and was still.

"**I will lay my claim upon the boy, Dumbledore. When he is ready, I will come to him, and I will prepare him. His ****soul is mine.**" The footsteps moved away from the old man's side. Quietly, they approached the sleeping child. Dumbledore saw a brief flash of light, and then all was dark.

...

Now here was Albus Dumbledore. He was stood in the doorway to number 12, staring out across the street at the houses opposite: they looked pleasantly soporific in the warm summer night. He looked back at the bundle of Harry Potter on the doorstep, and sighed comfortably. This was the right decision, he was sure of it.

He made his way thoughtfully down the garden path, his ever inquisitive eye roaming over the lawn and flowerbeds, until it reached the garden pond.

Dumbledore stopped dead in his tracks.

Was there some misplaced memory, stirring itself in the back of his mind?

Dumbledore looked closer – Yes! He was sure of it. There was something stood beside the garden pond: a grotesque _thing_. It was hard to make out in the darkness, a squat little figure, but Albus could see it was holding a wand...

No, wait. It was holding a fishing rod.

A shudder of nauseating revulsion travelled the length of the headmaster's spine as he turned on his heel and left the garden.

_Garden Gnomes,_ he thought to himself as he strode down the street, the street lamps re-lighting themselves as he clicked the deluminator.

_How utterly unconscionable._

Ignorance is bliss.


End file.
